It took a recent hangover to realise the closest I’ll come to meeting my 5 a day is a fruit smoothie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not averse to veggies, it’s more the false advertising I endured as a child that has left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Take the humble carrot for example,... Continue Reading →
I have a confession to make, whilst I want to encourage you to allow your mug to be captured on celluloid, I’m slightly guilty of Madge’s Papa Don’t Preach, in that my first reaction the moment someone requests a photo is to become a hive of industry. I’m not suggesting you rush out and buy... Continue Reading →
Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask you to prove you’re a natural blonde. However, I will let you into one of my personal beliefs and it’s not that the children are our future (although alarmingly at some stage they will inevitably take over the so called free world as we know it) rather I... Continue Reading →
Unfortunately, I can’t do justice to Michael Stipes’ soaring vocal, but as a teenager I could often be found skulking in corners, eagerly awaiting the comforting blanket of dusk. It was a huge gulf in audience, that leap from junior to secondary school, I’m not too proud to say I didn’t just flounder, I retreated. ... Continue Reading →
I was a clumsy kid; some things don’t change. I’ve lost count of the fractures I accumulated in my early years, but it never bothered me. At that age you attained almost celebrity status once that magical cast was set over your damaged limb. Suddenly kids you never knew couldn’t wait to pen their name... Continue Reading →
Ironically whenever I play that classic ode to slumber by The Chordettes I can’t help but lay awake reminiscing John Candy’s faultless performance as Uncle Buck as opposed to actually closing my eyes and drifting off to the land of nod. For me sleep is an illusive beast. It never used to be such a... Continue Reading →
If you’re reading this, that means you’re somewhere around the zone I was about 6 years ago, post pregnancy, post breakdown; when I caught sight of my ramshackle self and not only didn’t recognise my face or body, but I was wearing the clothes my mother had purchased for me from Bon March as opposed... Continue Reading →
I suppose the correct universal term is ‘parent guilt’ but stuff the PC brigade, I’m going to be gender specific and divulge my understanding of the blasted mummy guilt. I do concede it is an imposed assumption of wrongdoing that afflicts both parties once you take ownership of a mini-person. The truth is, my first... Continue Reading →
Let me take you on a journey, to a time before GHDs, when curtains and blond tips were all the rage for boys and Sister Unella wouldn’t cry out ‘shame’ behind you if you donned a scrunchie. When crimping was ‘in’ and it was de rigueur to style yourself on Madonna’s 80s look. So many... Continue Reading →
I know what you’re thinking; what does that fitty from GoT have to do with accepting your body, but that exquisite example of prime time jailbait is the namesake for my pelvic floor tear which for years I avoided touching, let alone braving the mirror #thelaceswereintheywerein (honestly it looked like a blind man had used... Continue Reading →
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